


Less and Less

by May



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Amporacest, Dream Bubble Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:39:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May/pseuds/May
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He grins, showing his sharp seadweller teeth, like yours. Somehow, you’d managed to console yourself that you could probably do worse than somebody who had your horns, your sign, your blood. You hadn’t even known that there were any trolls that weren’t Alternian. You’d felt oddly shamed by that. Death spat you into the bubbles and then everything was obviously bigger than you’d ever imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Less and Less

He places his hand squarely on the wall over your shoulder and leans in at you. You guess he’s probably learned that from somewhere, and you lean back. You’re resting against the wall of someone’s landhive. Something you remember, or something he remembers. Doesn’t really matter, does it?

He grins, showing his sharp seadweller teeth, like yours. Somehow, you’d managed to console yourself that you could probably do worse than somebody who had your horns, your sign, your blood. You hadn’t even known that there were any trolls that weren’t Alternian. You’d felt oddly shamed by that. Death spat you into the bubbles and then everything was obviously bigger than you’d ever imagined.

He’s like you, but you want to hope that you can do better than you.

“’C’mon chief, you know we’re the best,” he drawls. Lately, he’s been deliberately augmenting his voice because of the humans that go through the bubble, occasionally. It’s bizarrely slow, localised entirely in his upper pallet. Since he’s suppressing his lower cords, it doesn’t help that it’s strained.

“You’re a fuckin’ troll, you idiot,” you growl. “Speak like one.”

He gives a squeaky laugh, netted in at the back of his throat. The outlines of his gills shake underneath his tight shirt and you think you’re probably more embarrassed than he is. His hand is still planted against the wall beside your head, and he moves in, closer.

“You don’t get it,” he says. “You’re from Alternia. I was the fucking best on Alternia…” You cringe, somewhat – he’s a thing that’s somehow too flat to fill the shape you’d created. He continues, “but there was a lot that you didn’t get. Intellectually speaking.”

You swallow, and move to duck out of his shadow. He doesn’t push you back against the wall, but he puts a hand on your shoulder and you cringe.

“What happened?” he asks.

“It’s embarrassing,” you say. “You and me, it’s embarrassing. Do you know what the other trolls think of us.”

It’s not like you’ve gone around telling everyone, despite what you originally tried to think about the elitism of your own genetics, but in a map of bubbles containing not only several trolls and a couple of aliens but also many iterations of them, it gets hard for things not to be seen. You try not to think about the fact you’d pretty much have had no problem vocally labelling anything you had with any other troll. The only thing you can say is that you’re not quite as bad as him by dint of being aware of just how awful this is, but that’s not much comfort.

“Hey, look at at this way. You’re dating seadweller royalty. I’m dating seadweller royalty. Shouldn’t we be the envy of every troll in the void?” His fingertips brush the fins on your next. He has callouses from his guitar playing. You still have the same on your hands from using the crosshairs. For some reason, they never went away even after you died. It’s not just the friction that makes you shiver.  
It’s an odd feeling, to be caught between wanting to have something inside you and yet also being completely repulsed by the idea of seeing him naked ever again.

“There’s nothing to be fucking royal over,” you say. It feels weird to say, but also like you’ve reached some kind of new space. A breath to take. “There is nothing left.”

He frowns. “There’s a whole lot of trolls out there, Eridan,” he says. “Some of ‘em yours and some of ‘em mine, but they’re all below us except for the tyrians and god knows they’re not interested in us.”

He laughs a short bark. You notice he didn’t bother to imitate human speech, there. Something runs along your phantom nerves when he brings up Feferi. You’re aware that he doesn’t really have the same relationship with Meenah as you had with Fef, but he thinks it’s the same. It makes your gut churn.

“They’re all dead, Cro,” you say. “They’re all fucking dead and dead trolls don’t give a shit about the hemospectrum.”

You pull away from him and he truly lets you go, this time.

“Anyway, your hemospectrum isn’t like our hemospectrum. Don’t think I don’t know these things. You never learned a fucking thing about ruling, about survival.” Saying that feels like you’re swallowing something thick and warm-pitted. Something way back with the smell of brine and cold air and the round, metallic scent of lusus blood ticks inside you with satisfaction. You turn to glance back at him, then – and you think he looks, as he should, cowled.

Your nook throbs and you don’t feel any less repulsed. To finish it off with a good, solid pailing seems like it makes sense, of course. No point in letting it finish unceremoniously. That might be your genitalia talking, though, but you don’t care. He pulls one of those sticks out of his pocket and puts it between his teeth. It sits there – ugh, he doesn’t even know what to do with it, he just has it there because he thinks it suits some kind of image. You deftly reach forward and pluck it out of his mouth and throw it aside. He stares gormlessly and you think about who he became and you can’t believe that you ever…

You grab him by the shoulders , digging your claws in just a little. He grunts and you cut that off with a kiss. He tastes, mildly, a little sharp and you figure it’s the taste of the thing he had in his mouth. You guess that might actually be worse if he knew how to use it. His bottom lip hangs uselessly for a moment until you catch it between your teeth. Then you feel his tongue slip into your mouth and he pushes you against the hive wall. You think you might actually be in Alternia, but then you have no idea what his wigglerhood on his own planet was like.

He grinds up against you and you would, if you could, find a way that would let you experience this without having to be anywhere near him. This isn’t blackrom – it lacks the drive, that particular shard of devoted rivalry that you always thought a kismesittude should have. Elsewhere, his was the black romance your own ideals were based on. Now, he can’t give you anything like that.

You push back against him, anyway, tooth and claw, and he follows your lead. Your corner of the bubble is dark and you always feel like you should stay put when you do this. Slipping through a door doesn’t necessarily lead you to where you think it should. It’s easier to make things shift around you, and so you do. You’re in the shadow of your hive, now, and the dark seeps around you, only lit by the path that leads to brighter memories.

He draws back, hooking his fingers underneath the hem of his shirt and pulling it quickly over his head. There’s a practiced ease to it – nothing gets caught on his horns, and his hair isn’t too mussed from the effort. He’s in shape, too, and in no way, objectively speaking, unpleasant to look at.

You don’t feel uneasy because he’s unattractive. You feel uneasy because you can see the deliberate litheness of his frame, because you know what he thinks when he looks at himself. You swallow and watch his gills flutter just a little in the air, giving you your violet.

He’s stripped to the waist, and you just undo your pants and push them off. You can’t be bothered to have him stare at you the way he does. When he does that, you assume that he intends it to seem flattering. You’re actually not the type to leer at people, but the desperation behind it pings inside you, anyway. After this is done, you won’t speak to him, again.

He pushes you up against the wall and looks at you for a moment. It’s something he might think looks appropriately flushed. You place your hands on his shoulders and maneuver yourself so that you can lift your feet off the ground and wrap your legs around his waist. His hands are on your thighs as soon as they can be, and he takes your weight, pressing you back against the wall. He undoes the clasp on his pants, and you can soon feel the slick cool of his bulge against your nook. You moan and you can feel yourself beginning to open up to take him, already. He groans louder, and you always forget how noisy he is.

You’d always thought noise was a good thing, and it still might be, but not from him. You’re going to bear it, though, this one last time. You guess there’s stuff you might avoid if you didn’t enjoy being filled. But you do and, as far as you’re concerned, there would be far less point to this if you didn’t do it this way, anyway.

He looks down the length of your bodies and asks, “What could be better than this, chief?” he grins. “You and me, we’re the same.”

You cringe, but his bulge begins to slide inside of you, and it’s too much for you to react to anything when your nook is stretched around him like that. You hear him grunt loudly, and he makes too much effort in that. He wriggles inside you and you contract around him. He’s not too big, but he fills you up well. It’s so easy to do this, you realise. It’s so easy just to say yes to him.

He talks, he mutters to himself, goading himself onwards like he’s achieving something and groaning loudly like he wants it as a benchmark.

“Shut up,” you breathe. You don’t need that. You’re both slick with genetic material, and so he’s moving more easily inside you, now, and deep, too. You think you’re nearing your final release and he’s beginning to shake against you, so you think he might be, too.

You’re dead, so there’s not really any material to retain. You can go through the motions of holding it and excreting into a bucket, and maybe some do, even without knowing they don’t have to. You don’t bother, though. It’s actually better this way, you think, when his material finally floods inside you. Where his bulge is beginning to sag out of your nook, you can still feel it drip, cold, down your thighs. It’s strange, like pretending it’s not there, and then it isn’t. You don’t really care how he feels about it – and if this was blackrom, you probably would have done. This isn’t a mess of quadrants, it’s just nothing.

You zip up your pants, your skin dry, and your nook comfortably empty, now. He slouches against the wall and chews on the end of another one of those sticks, his eyes heavy-lidded. His shirt stays off and the first button of his pants stays undone. His gills flex and he breathes through his land lungs, and you feel yours rubbing against the inside of your shirt.

“Stay here with me,” he says. “We can talk about how mine was, and how yours was. Y’know, our planets. Contrast and compare.”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” you say. Actually, you sort of don’t. “And if I did, it wouldn’t be with you.”

You think he looks almost hurt for a moment, but you don’t care. You know why he does things and that’s the worst thing about him.


End file.
